


A Dream in Oblivion

by ExaltedBrand



Category: Fire Emblem Heroes, Fire Emblem Series
Genre: Angst, Dream Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, French Kissing, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Making Out, Nipple Licking, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Canon, Post-Coital Cuddling, Sad and Sweet, Threesome - F/F/F, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:36:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28031757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ExaltedBrand/pseuds/ExaltedBrand
Summary: In deepest sleep, Freyja dreams of her regrets.
Relationships: Freyja/Plumeria/Triandra
Comments: 7
Kudos: 20





	A Dream in Oblivion

**Author's Note:**

> Pairing suggestion from [Urby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Urby/pseuds/Urby)

Even in oblivion, Freyja dreamed.

Sometimes, she dreamed of home. Of family and familiarity. She dreamed of a world reunited with Freyr: a world where the two of them could walk, once more, through the groves of Ljósálfheimr and Dökkálfheimr together. A world where her brother’s attention was reserved for her and her alone, never to be stolen away by sympathy for lesser creatures. A world where, for a few precious moments, she could find comfort in his company again – moments, like the dreams, that could seem to stretch into eternity until the very moment they ended, so abruptly, and cast her back into darkness.

Sometimes, she dreamed of anger and grief. Of how she’d lost her brother’s affection, watching helplessly as he slipped further and further out of reach until she was all alone. She’d dreamed of the day she’d taken him back for herself; of sealing him away in Dökkálfheimr and seizing his powers, never to let him go. And she dreamed, too, of his defiance – of the Order of Heroes piercing his heart, staining the dark roots underneath with his blood, and of the realisation—like a blade through her own heart—that he’d favoured death over staying by her side.

Sometimes, like tonight, she dreamed of atonement. Of taking back the love she’d poured so foolishly and fruitlessly into her brother over so many years – and bestowing it, instead, upon those she’d neglected for him. Those who had devoted themselves to her from the day she’d brought them to Dökkálfheimr, even as they’d received nothing from her in return.

In such dreams, she made amends. In such dreams, she showed them all the love and more that they’d deserved. That she’d failed to provide.

“Ah… That’s good.” With every motion of Freyja’s hand, Plumeria bit her lip and sighed, writhing softly under her touch. “You feel so wonderful, Lady Freyja…”

Freyja knew how potent a dream could be. How powerful. By her will, they could be twisted, made malleable; could be moulded to reflect an individual’s greatest fears or deepest desires. A dream could liberate a soul, just as it could imprison one: an offer of never-ending happiness fit to enrapture and ensnare even the mightiest of humans. A dream could be an ideal world. A second chance.

“Lady Freyja…” Triandra gasped, hips moving in time with her queen’s fingers. “T-this is… I-I can’t… _ah_ …!”

A dream could never be real.

Certainly, they had the power to persuade; to convince the dreamer that they were awake, that they had free will, that the illogical was perfectly logical. Plumeria and Triandra, spread out over a bed of thorns and pressed up against cushions of leaves, had been captured perfectly by the dream, every bit as beautiful as their real selves. And even now, a small part of Freyja believed she was awake. Even now, as she and her álfar engaged in acts they had once thought reprehensible—as their faces flushed an unsightly red, as their bodies squirmed in the purple light, as Freyja knelt between them on the bed and worked her hands between their legs with the same devotion they’d shown her—the illusion held.

For a time, she could pretend that she’d been better to them. Here, where the night filled up with lustful sounds and the sweet scent of desire, she could forget her mistakes.

“Shh. Everything’s okay. I’m here for you, my dear little álfar.”

As she whispered, Freyja’s fingers pushed ever deeper into their folds, treating both of her servants with equal attention. There was a rhythm to it, constant and demanding, but she’d embraced the challenge, embraced the chance to show them—these mindless mirages born of her dreams—the extent of her love. Soon enough, she’d found the right tempo. She moved between her usual leisurely grace and a fast, feverish passion, bringing them to the very heights of pleasure only to draw back, so suddenly, to make them crave more; to make them need her affection as she needed theirs.

Need. Such a peculiar word. Why did she need to convince herself that they loved her when they had always shown her such adoration? Why did she need to prove to them—to herself—that she had grown fond of them in turn?

She had already offered proof – not to these fantasies resembling them, but to the real Plumeria, the real Triandra. She had given them their lives back, had so earnestly wished for their happiness that she’d sacrificed everything for their freedom. And even in the last moments before oblivion had taken her—as she’d held them in her arms, falling slowly to the ground, and as they’d pledged to find a way of waking her—their love and loyalty had never been in doubt.

Freyja shouldn’t have ‘needed’ anything. Oblivion should have been dark and silent, with neither thoughts nor feelings to disturb her rest. But the emotions she’d felt towards her álfar at the very end had unsettled her, confused her; had been so nauseatingly human in nature that her mind worked even in her deepest sleep to comprehend them. In that confusion, those same emotions had been warped by regret, had been corrupted by a glut of only too human desire – and what should have been simple affection, offered in recompense, had manifested in her thoughts as something far more obscene.

Now, she felt the need—almost a compulsion, strange and urgent—to offer them more than affection. Now, she felt the need to offer them everything.

“Don’t stop, Lady Freyja.” Plumeria’s eyes were half-lidded, overwhelmed by sensations, and her face formed a perverse mask of lust. “Oh, please… I’m so _very_ close…”

Perhaps, Freyja thought, the real Plumeria would have been disgusted by this version of her. Like this, she was almost a parody of herself; so lewd, so lustful, so utterly consumed by the sort of desire she’d always found repulsive in humans.

But at the same time, she’d always been aching for love. For warmth, for kindness. And in the dream, that was all Freyja could provide.

As her fingers worked their magic, she lowered her head and treated the both of them, in turn, to a long, loving kiss – first Plumeria, who eagerly accepted her tongue and indulged with messy abandon in the taste of her lady’s lips; then Triandra, who received her lady’s affection with a clumsy but warm sort of passion, letting their noses bump and brush together in a way that somehow stirred sweet feelings in Freyja’s heart. Flooded by a sudden rush of sentiment, she pushed harder and faster into Triandra; and when the younger dökkálfar moaned in response, high and happy, Freyja found herself taken aback by Triandra’s expression – by the smile she’d only worn in her earliest days by Freyja’s side.

For all those years since, Freyja had never noticed how sharply Triandra’s appearance had changed in its absence; had never cared, seeing happiness as unimportant for a tool, to make her smile again. But now—seeing the way it could light up even a dream—she wondered how she’d ever suffered to see it go.

“Ah… Lady Freyja, I feel… I feel so… so…!”

Triandra bucked instinctively against her lady’s hand, lips parted in a silent moan as she arched her back and offered up more and more of her body. Freyja felt the muscles tightening around her fingers, drawing her further in; and little by little, something raw and primitive and intolerable—something human—overcame her mind, debasing her dignity and driving her further and further down into debauchery as she rewarded her two álfar with rekindled enthusiasm.

Before the dreams, she had never once considered engaging in such acts with them; in showing her affection so directly, so immodestly, in a way so unbecoming of a queen. And yet, the more she gave into her own desires, the more desperately appealing it seemed. The dream had drawn her in, tempting her with a beautiful lie, and she was content to remain for as long as it would allow.

“Look at her, my lady,” Plumeria chuckled. Even as Freyja continued to pleasure her—as her thumb brushed over her clit and two fingers became three, pumping in and out of her entrance with increasing fervour—she gazed across at Triandra’s face, twisted into an expression that Freyja couldn’t help but find appealing. Enticing, even. “She’s so indecent, so shameless, so _drenched_ with desire… and so very happy.”

Plumeria drew closer to Triandra, lips pressing against the skin just below her ear, and left a trail of kisses down her neck. Triandra gasped at the contact, her moans breaking into short, sharp squeaks and her body tightening to meet the pressure of Freyja’s fingers; and as Plumeria’s kisses grew more and more insistent, she turned to meet her in a kiss of their own, letting the other dökkálfar’s tongue slip past her lips and into her mouth.

The sounds of their lovemaking—their hungry kisses, their heavy breathing, their voices becoming one—sent a wave of heat rising through Freyja, and she picked up the pace, delighting in every sensation: in the way her dear álfar clung to each other in the heat of their embrace, finding the love and happiness they’d been so cruelly deprived of as humans; the way their voices hitched when her fingers curled just slightly upwards, massaging and caressing their inner walls to bring them ever closer to release; and the way they all entwined together in a single perfect moment of love, letting the scents and sounds and sweat of their passion rise all around them in a cloud so thick that the dream became obscured and indistinguishable from reality.

“Oh, Lady Freyja,” Plumeria sighed, moaning into Triandra’s mouth. “Yes… Just like that…! Mm…!”

“M-my lady…” Triandra managed, struggling under the twin sensations of Freyja’s fingers and Plumeria’s tongue. She pressed back into the bed, letting her nails dig into the thorns and brambles as she desperately tried and failed to hold on. “Please…!”

“My darling álfar.” Freyja’s voice was only a low whisper, yet somehow—perhaps simply because she willed it so—it was audible even over the flurry of desire. “You’ve done so well. You’ve suffered for so long. Now… be free.”

Her words rang familiar in her mind, felt misplaced within the dream; but they proved sufficient, regardless, to send her two imaginary álfar tumbling over the edge. She felt their bodies convulse, twisting and stiffening and surrendering to the throes of passion – and in an instant, they broke. Their voices cried out together into the night, rising higher and higher towards the peak of pleasure, until at last they shuddered with bliss, spilling sweet liquid over their lady’s fingers, and collapsed into the bed as one.

Then, silence.

As the tension faded away—as their voices fell and their bodies slackened in the cushions of leaves—Freyja withdrew herself from them and sat up. Her fingers glistened in the purple light, and she savoured the taste for a moment, as light and syrupy as the dream nectar. Then, having cleaned herself to satisfaction, she ran her hands through her álfars’ hair, moving in a gentle caress. A tenderness she’d all but forgotten.

Forgotten. Was that the right word?

For so many years, she’d treated her álfar as tools – means to an end, loyal and disposable. But there must have been a time, lost beyond memory, when she’d thought more of them. A time when she had taken pity on them: on the girl starving at the bottom of a well, unloved and afraid; and on the girl who had made herself a murderer for her sister’s sake. A time when she’d held them in her arms and promised to love them as her own.

As with every other love in her life, she’d spurned them for Freyr. She’d pushed them away, disregarded them, thought of them as less than they were – and all to convince herself of her devotion to her brother.

What a fool she’d been.

Briefly, she turned her gaze upwards, staring into the starry sky beyond the dome of thorns; the deep, boundless expanse of the heavens that so captivated humans.

In truth, a dream could accomplish precious little. A dream couldn’t make up for one’s mistakes; couldn’t turn back time for more than a few fleeting moments; couldn’t provide escape forever. Eventually, the dreamer had to wake – or return to oblivion, as endless and unknowable as the night above.

But a dream could, she conceded, be beautiful while it lasted.

“Mm… Lady Freyja…”

Plumeria’s voice surprised Freyja. She looked down to find both her álfar still awake; still present, even, in the dream, where she had long since expected them to fade away.

“My sweets. Aren’t you tired…?”

“A little.” Triandra reached up, tugging at her queen’s hand, and smiled again – earnest and adoring. “But I’d rather not sleep just yet.”

“Nor I,” Plumeria said, resting her head in Freyja’s lap. “The night’s so very young. It’d be a shame to cast it all aside… To rob ourselves of your love and affection and be thrown back into the cold…”

There was something strange in her words; something that caught Freyja’s ear, that made her glance down and meet the dökkálfar’s eyes. From the way she spoke—the false Plumeria, the dream’s Plumeria, the Plumeria made only from her distant, unfamiliar memories—it almost sounded as though she’d lost Freyja before.

Perhaps the dream’s illusions were simply more accurate than she’d given them credit for. Or perhaps… perhaps, in defiance of all explanation…

“We love you, Lady Freyja,” Triandra murmured. She drew herself up slowly, sighing as Freyja’s arm wrapped itself around her shoulder, and cuddled up against her. “No matter what happens—no matter how far we have to go—we’ll always love you. We’ll always be yours. All I want… no, all _we_ want is… is…”

Her voice trailed off, and her eyelids fluttered shut, blushing with some thought she’d been too shy to voice. Freyja’s arm tightened around her, pulling her into the warmth of her embrace, and let her other hand stroke Plumeria’s cheek, tracing slow patterns across her skin and the smooth shape of her lips.

Perhaps it didn’t matter what they were, or what they said, or where they’d sprung from – whether from the depths of her dreams, or from somewhere else, somewhere incomprehensible. In the end, they were her álfar all the same.

And at seeing them smile, she felt the need to preserve those smiles. To hold onto their happiness, making it her own; to provide them with everything they wanted, even in a dream; to be worthy, at last, of their unconditional love and adoration.

If such a feeling wasn’t love of her own—love as humans experienced it, the same love that made humans so weak and vulnerable and enviable—then she’d accept this as the closest she’d ever get.

For just a little while longer, the dream could offer them more.

With a few deft movements, Freyja reached back and untied the laces of her dress; and as it fell loose down her shoulders, like a white veil discarded and tangled in the thorns, she let her álfar feel the warmth of her bosom against their bare skin. They responded slowly at first, grasping at her breasts in soft, languid motions – then she groaned and rocked her head back as their desire quickly returned in full, kneading at the ample flesh and taking it into their mouths, suckling and licking and nibbling to bring her sensations—emotions—she hadn’t known in a very long time.

She could feel herself turning weak, growing distant from the feelings and the dreams – but her álfar were still there for her, still so close to her, still holding onto her with such love and tenderness as they worshipped her body. Her hands ran through their hair as their tongues worked in circles against her, and she found herself amazed at how every strand, every lick, felt so tangible. So delicate. So… real.

Real. The word hung like a contradiction in her mind, and she began to wonder again.

Then she blinked, and the thought was lost as her world returned to nothing.

**Author's Note:**

> in which i write two fics with surreal dreamscapes in a row
> 
> If you enjoyed this story (and if you're interested in updates on my writing), feel free to follow me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/ExaltedBrandAO3)! I'm more than happy to take requests for F/F rarepairs either here or on there into account for the future.


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